Suburban Choka No. 4
I’d wrench free the blade from the mouth of this mower, let the grass cascade in waves that crest into seed, if I might still sail within the shores of my lawn — this propellerless vessel plying back and forth, pressing out ripples with these wheels, in even rows that echo through fall’s...
Read MoreFlight Lines
When the real estate agent hipped open the attic’s plywood door, a swallow fell from the mud nest fastened to the chimney, and — flying from that silt sconce through the mote-thick sunlight — spilled from the farmhouse out a hole where a window should have been. In the workshop below, I noted another nest jammed into the joists’ cross-bridging, and — once we’d moved in — a third was found, wedged into the ceiling of the cellar, its gray, drooping grasses wet with condensation, glaring down in the gloaming like the head of a dank, vigilant witch. The attic...
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